Analysis may be of two sorts, that in the per¬son of the author, and that of the characters by themselves; this last, for the most part, in stories written from the point of view of the actor- narrator. Of the first the illustrations are end¬less. Any good short story written from the point of view of the author-omniscient will con¬tain passages of analysis. The following is from Turgenieff's story A Lear of Ike Steppes, a longish tale, to be sure, and of a leisurely method:
And yet even this self-confident unflinching. giant had his moments of melancholy and de¬pression. Without any visible cause he would suddenly begin to be sad; he would lock himself up alone in his room, and hum—positively hum—like a whole hive of bees; or he would call his page Maximka, and tell him to read aloud to him out of the solitary book which had some¬how found its way into his house, an odd copy of Novilovsky's, The Worker at Leisure, or else to sing to him. And Maximka, who by some strange freak of chance could spell out print, syllable by syllable, would set to work with the usual chopping up of the words and transference of the accent, bawling out phrases of the follow¬ing description: "But man in his wilfulness draws from this empty hypothesis, which he applies to the animal kingdom, utterly opposite conclusions. Every animal separately," he says, "is not capable of making me happy!" and so on. Or he would chant in a shrill little voice a mournful song, of which nothing could be dis¬tinguished but: "Ee eee . . . ee . a .. . ee . a . ee Aaa ska 0 . . . oo . . . oo . . . bee . . . ee . . . ee . . . ee . . . la!" While Mar¬tin Petrovitch would shake his head, make allu¬sions to the mutability of life, how all things turn to ashes, fade away like grass, pass—and will return no more! A picture had somehow come into his hands, representing a burning can¬dle, which the winds, with puffed-out cheeks, were blowing upon from all sides; below was the inscription: "Such is the life of man." He was very fond of this picture; he had hung it up in his own room, but at ordinary, not melan¬choly, times he used to keep it turned face to the wall, so that it might not depress him. Harlov, that colossus, was afraid of death 1 To the consolations of religion, to prayer, however, he rarely had recourse in his fits of melancholy. Even then he chiefly relied on his own intelli¬gence. He had no particular religious feeling; he was not often seen in church; he used to say, it is true, that he did not go on the ground that, owing to his corporeal dimensions, he was afraid of squeezing other people out. The fit of de¬pression commonly ended in Martin Petro¬vitch's beginning to whistle, and suddenly, in a voice of thunder, ordering out his droshky, and dashing off about the neighborhood, vigorously brandishing his disengaged hand over the peak of his cap, as though he would say, "For all that I don't care a straw!" He was a regular Russian. The method is simple—a generalization or two based upon the author's knowledge of the character, and typical illustrations of the traits so given. The introductory paragraph of Stevenson's Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk will serve as an example of a generalized char¬acterization more tersely done. The character is, of course, revealed somewhat further as the story progresses, but as it is a story of action, character at no time plays a very important part:
Mr. Silas Q. Scuddamore was a young Ameri¬can of a simple and harmless disposition, which was the more to his credit as he came from New England—a quarter of the New World not pre¬cisely famous for those qualities. Although he was exceedingly rich, he kept a note of all his expenses in a little paper pocket-book; and he had chosen to study the attractions of Paris from the seventh story of what is called a fur¬nished hotel, in the Latin Quarter. There was a great deal of habit in his penuriousness; and his virtue, which was very remarkable among his associates, was principally founded upon diffidence and youth. Characterization by a running analysis of thought and motive can be illustrated from almost any story in the analytical manner. The method is a variant upon the summarized or generalized analysis, and the examples of it are necessarily briefer, coming, as they do, in the thick of action. Maupassant's Coward will afford a suitable selection:
He commenced to argue with himself concern¬ing the possibility of this thing "Am I afraid?" No, of course he was not afraid, as he had de¬termined to carry the thing through, as his mind was fully made up to fight, and not to tremble. But he felt so profoundly troubled that he asked himself the question: "Is it possible to be afraid in spite of one's self?" And that doubt, that disquietude, that dread took possession of him; if some force stronger than his will, a dominating, irresistible power should conquer him, what would happen? Yes, what would happen? He certainly would go to the ground, inasmuch as he had made up his mind to go there. But suppose his hand should tremble? Suppose he should faint? And he thought of his position, of his reputation, of his name. And suddenly a strange fancy seized him to get up, in order to look in the mirror. He relit his candle. When he saw the reflection of his face in the polished glass, he could hardly recog¬nize himself, and it seemed to him he had never seen this man before. His eyes appeared enor¬mous; and he certainly was pale—yes, very pale. He remained standing in front of the mirror. He put out his tongue as if to test the state of his health, and of a sudden this thought burst into his mind like a bullet: "The day after to-morrow, at this time, I may be dead." And his heart began to beat furiously again. Of yet briefer bits of such characterization, a chance passage will suffice: . . . He opened the door and went down¬stairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, random as chance-medley—a scene of defeat. Life as he thus reviewed it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet haven for his bark. . . .—(Markkeist.)
For the actor-narrator's analysis both of him¬self and a second character of the story: I first caught sight of my uncle when we were still some yards away in one of the flying glimpses of twilight that chequered the pitch darkness of the night. He was standing up behind the para¬pet, his head thrown back and the bottle to his mouth. As he put it down, he saw and recog¬nized us with a toss of one hand fleeringly above his head. "Has he been drinking?" shouted I to Rorie. "He will aye be drunk when the wind blaws," returned Rorie in the same high key, and it was all I could do to hear him "Then—was he so—in February?" I enquired. Rorie's "Ay" was a cause of joy to me. The murder, then, had not sprung in cold blood from calculation; it was an act of madness no more to be condemned than to be pardoned. My uncle was a dangerous madman, if you will, but he was not cruel and base as I had feared. Yet what a scene for a carouse, what an incredi¬ble vice, was this that the poor man had chosen! I have always thought drunkenness a wild and almost fearful pleasure, rather demoniacal than human; but drunkenness, out here in the roar¬ing blackness, on the edge of a cliff above that hell of waters, the man's head spinning like the Roost, his foot tottering on the edge of death, his ear watching for the signs of shipwreck, surely that, if it were credible in any one, was morally impossible in a man like my uncle, whose mind was set upon a damnatory creed and haunted by the darkest superstitions. Yet so it was; and as we reached the bight of shelter and could breathe again, I saw the man's eyes shining in the night with an unholy glimmer —(The Merry Men.)
Perhaps no further illustrations of the method are necessary, for it is sufficiently obvious in principle. Self-revelation at its profoundest is to be found in the soliloquies of Hamlet.